Church at the dead of night, lit only by candlelight. hmmmm the prompt hmmmm the hmmmm
some prompt i probably deleted.
Shhh. Listen close. Can you hear it?
That soft gravel rasp, the crunch of glass beneath a boot? A wind chime wheeze, sugarwork pipes dissolving into rust on the breeze?
The dying of the Light is such a small thing.
He settles inside like a maggot come to feast, comfortable beneath the moldering cathedral ribs which creak with the pain of holding up the patchwork rooftop. Snow blows in through the shattered wooden hull, thick drifts carpeting the floor. The winter comes by his hand alone, but the rest of the rot, the waste, this is all the work of man, that most resilient steward. A rafter succumbs to its tender care, and crashes upon the pew behind him with a thunderous noise.
Silence holds for a breathless moment…. before the flip of a page slices through.
Cathedrals. Devotion. Life. Such fleeting things.
( you will not be so impermanent. )
… and speaking of fleeting things —
“ Have you come to pray? ”
